


Santa and the Soldier

by PatPrecieux



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Captain John Watson, Christmas Party, Christmas Smut, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, M/M, Sherlock is a Brat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-09-06 11:02:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8748013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PatPrecieux/pseuds/PatPrecieux
Summary: Sherlock finally understands what it REALLY means to be a soldier.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crazycatt71](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazycatt71/gifts).



> A Veteran's Christmas Party opens Sherlock's eyes.

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes"! The scolding voice and none too gentle tug on his sensitive follicles was decidedly NOT the sweet greeting and gentle kiss the Detective had come to expect from his Doctor after a day apart. His response therefore, naturally was, "When you see fit to behave in a civil manner, I shall reply." This was followed by an arrogant silence.

 

Since being together, Sherlock had, after a fashion, learned to be more aware of his lover's moods (if for no other reason than self preservation) and, most times, act accordingly. This was not one of those times. Unfortunately, he had chosen a bad day to be a brat. John Hamish Watson was royally pissed.

 

"That is just as well you wanker. All the more time for me to yell at you." The shorter man walked around the kitchen chair and grabbed Sherlock by the collar. "I am going to ask you one question, and God Above, you are going to answer me or the next time we have sex, you will be too old to remember how!"

 

It took some doing to get Sherlock's undivided attention; this did. Trying to appear unaffected, he looked up at John and calmly spoke. "There's no need for improbable threats John", he fought a smile, "ask your question."

 

The smile John wore was not a happy one. "Where", he growled his nose almost touching Sherlock's, " is my invitation to the Fusilier's annual Christmas party ?"

 

The younger man took a deep breath, "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about. I'm not in the habit of opening your -"

 

Now, John's breath was hot in Sherlock's ear. "That was not a threat Sherlock. Where Is It ? You have until the count of three. One - Two -"

 

On only one occasion like this had John gotten to three. It had been memorable. Sherlock knew better. "Very well John. I may have forgotten that it was delivered."

 

"You better not have forgotten where you mislaid it."

 

Right now, it was apparent he was dealing with Captain Watson. Time for retreat. "I believe you MAY find it under the couch cushions."

 

Huffing, the older man marched to the couch and attacked it. "What have we here, and only delivered - two weeks ago! How time flies when you're hiding the truth. Were you just trusting to luck that no one would bother to check when my RSVP failed to arrive ?"

 

At least Sherlock had the decency to lower his eyes,"Perhaps. As they say, hope springs eternal."

 

John's expression turned from anger to disappointment. "I'm well aware you find this kind of thing boring and a waste of time, but it's important to me. Suppose that never occurred to you."

 

Shaking his head, the Doctor opened the envelope and read in silence. Then he turned, "Here's the reason I was given a call back. I'm to be accorded the honor of reciting the Creed this year." 

 

Sherlock looked up, " The Creed ?"

 

"Don't trouble yourself Sherlock. It's just another archaic, useless tradition; same way you feel about Christmas. Nevermind, I'm tired; and due to this short notice I'm going to have to go to the dry cleaners this afternoon and have them put a rush on getting my uniform ready."

 

Sherlock gulped and stammered, "You're, ah, you're meant to wear your uniform ?"

 

"Oh of course! Something interests me, it's rubbish. The same thing hits one of your kinks and you're on the case."

 

"Damn", he thought. He never had what idiots called a little voice of conscience until John. Now the tedious thing was whispering, "Shame on you Sherlock Holmes." "John, it's true, I do find the sight you in your uniform, or out of it for that matter, quite appealing. But if I am guilty of anything -"

 

"Except lying, subterfuge, manipulation and mail fraud?"

 

"Yes, besides those, it's being reluctant to share you with others."

 

John pursed his lips tightly, "Here it comes," he thought.

 

"The idea of others having your attention for an entire evening, well, I find it loathsome. However, I see the error of my ways; and as penance, I would be honored to escort you."

 

The doctor stiffled a smile, "Penance ? Since when have you ever been penitent about anything ?"

 

"If memory serves, today." Three giant strides brought him to John's side where he instantly hugged his blogger around the waist while burying his head into John's neck. "Please, pretty please with, um, organic honey on it?"

 

The Doctor could feel the smile on the other man's face. "You, Sherlock Holmes truly ARE a ridiculous man; but a man, God help me, that I can't seem to resist. And since I believe the 'rubber' chicken we will be served for dinner WILL be a torment for you, yes, you may be my escort."

 

"And sit at your feet, Captain?"

 

The shorter man swatted at the detective's shoulder playfully. "Just for that, YOU are running to the cleaners with my uniform, and I do mean run. They close in half an hour. Go on, you know where it's stored; and mind, don't be drooling all over it!"

 

Saturday night found them rushing around Baker Street trying to get ready. "John, relax. We have hours yet before we need to leave. I have calculated that we have-"

 

The Doctor came flying out of their bedroom, "Twenty minutes, you git; and knowing your hair grooming routine, you'll need every second of it."

 

He leered at the man in uniform, " Keep distracting me, and we may never get there."

 

"We WILL get there," he roared, but with no heat behind it, "if I have to throw you over my shoulder and carry you all the way to Royal bloody Hospital Chelsea !"

 

"There he is," Sherlock purred, "Captain John Hamish Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers."

 

"And I'll thank you to remember, we'll be going out Royal Hospital Road right by the Thames. Don't make me have to drown you before we get there ! Hurry up !"

 

To John's relief, they were safely in a taxi right on time.

 

Sherlock whined, "I fail to understand why you are being so secretive about this Creed."

 

"I'm not being secretive,luv, it's just there are so few times I know something you don't, I have to take advantage. Besides, the anticipation will keep boredom at bay."

 

"Oh I won't be bored. Since the majority of your veterans are in their 80's and 90's , I can deduce their ailments and most likely time of demise."

 

"Oi ! Lots of the fellows are my age and even younger; and deduce their time of demise!? Bit not good Sherlock!" Then he noticed the gleam in the detective's eyes. "Brat !!"

 

Even Sherlock had to admit to being impressed by the Great Hall in which the party was being held. Designed by Sir Christopher Wren, the hall was bordered by huge oil painting murals high above the floor, which, much to his delight was composed of large black and white squares. He needn't tell John he would occupy his mind with counting and then calculating the area of the squares. The room was also elaborately festooned with the mandatory Christmas decorations, which Sherlock supposed were quite spectaular, IF you liked that sort of thing.

 

He judged there were some 200 or more revelers interspersed amongst the tables for eight and the head table. John was right, there were a good number of men his age and younger, but the greater portion were elderly. However, Sherlock noted an almost equal number of young and old were disabled or in need of walkers and wheelchairs.

 

That he found this observation to be disturbing surprised him. It was afterall a Veteran's Home. But to see each of these men, whole or damaged, so proudly wearing the dress uniforms of their Regiment, proud, like John; what had gotten into him? It was only an inane Christmas party.

 

His musings were interrupted by John coming with drinks. "Here you are luv. Some posh pretentious wine I knew would to be to your taste." Despite the teasing, the doctor seemed slightly ill at ease. "Sweetheart,I have a bit of bad news, but please don't be upset." Sherlock just waited. "Luv, turns out we can't sit together."

 

For any ordinary person, this would be disappointing; but for Sherlock it was a catastrophe.

 

"Unacceptable John, absolutely unacceptable! I will refuse, I- I'll call Mycroft!"

 

Normally, John would laugh, but Sherlock invoking his brother's name told him this was not the least bit funny to his lover. Taking Sherlock's elbow, he steered him to a quiet corner.

 

"Pet, I wasn't to know they would want me seated at the head table. I would have told you. Now look, that first table there, right at the end, is yours; close enough to smell my cologne," he joked going for a lighter tone. "The men you'll be with are retired medical corps like me. I know them all and they'll make really good dinner companions, I promise. In fact, Dr. Fitzgerald there is a great fan of yours. I wager he'll let you go on for days about your cases. You can deduce to your hearts content."

 

Sherlock was about to throw a tantrum until he could see that John was truly concerned about him. There was that stupid little voice in his head again, "Can't you just this once give the poor man some understanding?" The detective scoffed, "Stupid conscience!"

 

"What Sherlock ? Sorry didn't quite catch that."

 

The younger man sighed and raised an eyebrow, "But not deduce possible times of demise ?", he quipped.

 

Now John did laugh, "Except for that beautiful man." Then, he stretched up and kissed Sherlock on the cheek, totally content that everyone there could see as if to say, "That's right, boyfriends here, make something of it."

 

Sherlock simply could not return that gesture of trust with anything less. "Very well, John; but I want it widely known that you are the one giving me carte blanche to talk all evening."

 

The doctor kissed him again, "I'll make a public announcement shall I ?"

 

Sherlock squeezed his blogger's hand. "I think kissing me in full view of the assembly is sufficient. You may make the introductions. I'm sure your colleagues will be most impressed with the company you keep."

 

Holding the detective's hand as they walked to the table, John whispered, " If they're not, they bloody well should be."

 

As it happened, John had been correct about several things. The banquet food was indeed inedible, and Dr. Fitzgerald was a fascinating man. Rather than monopolizing the conversation, Sherlock found himself truly interested in the retired army surgeon's stories of his posting in 1930's India and his combat duty in World War Two.

 

Noticing at some point that John kept looking over at him anxiously, Sherlock favored him with the smile that he normally would never let see the light of day outside of Baker Street. The smile meant only for John that said, "I'm fine, I love you."

 

The evening progressed with mindless speeches until the Master of Ceremonies made an announcement. " As you are all aware, the traditional Scotch for the toast is being brought to the tables. Please refrain from taking a wee sip for medicinal purposes and then asking for another." Polite laughter was followed by, "Gentlemen, please be upstanding for The Regimental Creed."

 

Sherlock was now paying rapt attention, eyes on John. He was briefly diverted by Dr. Fitzgerald, "Mr. Holmes, would you grant me the courtesy of your arm for support. I don't wish to stay in this damnable wheelchair, but I fear I cannot stand long on my own."

 

" It would be my pleasure sir." Then he thought, "When did I become so accommodating?" He extended his arm to the veteran who made a valiant effort at standing tall.

 

In the meanwhile, John had risen from his seat and was making his way to a position below and in front of the head table. He was every inch Captain Watson; back ramrod straight, shoulders squared, head high, his stride steady, the corners turned with military precision. Watching him however, it occurred to Sherlock what he was seeing was not born of routine or regulation. It was rather a religion of sorts based on faith in duty, honor and a camaraderie that Sherlock couldn't completely grasp.

 

Having arrived at his proper place, John raised his right arm in a snappy salute and in a strong voice recited the following :

I am a Fusilier, trained and ready to deploy.  
I will defend my country's freedoms with respect and integrity.  
I will always maintain my arms, my equipment and myself.  
I will place the mission and the team first.  
I will never accept defeat nor let down my mates or my Regiment.  
I will always be one of England's finest, a Fusilier.

The crisp salute was returned by every veteran in the room, then John was handed a Scotch which he raised high, " To the Fusiliers!" A roar passed through the crowd as they responded in one voice. " To the Fusiliers!" The glasses were drained and all were seated as John retraced his steps back to the podium.

 

Despite having emptied his own glass, Sherlock's mouth was dry. Dr.Fitzgerald patted the detective's arm and smiled sincerely, "Thank you young man for allowing an old man to maintain his dignity."

 

At that moment Sherlock realized he had no interest in deducing when this brave man would succumb to the ravages of time, rather that he wished there was a way to restore vitality to a fine old soldier.

 

The remainder of the event was tedious but not insufferable. More speeches, and good lord, Christmas carols. At the urging of his tablemates, Sherlock even joined in. He resolved however, that should anyone possess either audio or visual proof of said caroling, he would engage Mycroft's minions to find and destroy all of it.

 

Just as it seemed the festivities were at an end, Sherlock was surprised to see John step to the microphone. Clearing his throat, he began. "Fellow Fusiliers, this last tribute was meant to be given by Sergeant Major Edward Briggs." He nodded to a man seated at the opposite end of the table. "I'm given to understand, sadly, our mate has lost his voice tonight. Undoubtedly the result of the many dressing downs we all received from the leather lungs of the good Sergeant Major."

 

Sherlock observed the Sergeant with a critical eye. John was doing an act of kindness then. The other man was obviously terminally ill, most probably with a cancer of the esophagus or throat, and his blogger was helping him appear in fine fettle.

 

John continued, "Whatever our ages, we are all here tonight under the banner of Old War Horses, and this is one of our stories. As a young man, Sgt. Briggs found himself at Harrow with a fellow classmate from Berlin, Karl Mueller. They remained fast friends until Karl was recalled by his family to Germany before the Second World War. Even then, the two friends continued to correspond until such communication was no longer allowed. Several years later, fate intervened with Karl becoming a prisoner of war assigned to a camp near where Sgt.Briggs was recovering from a serious wound sustained in combat. The two men reconnected and resumed their friendship which remains strong to this day."

 

John paused a moment then continued, "Recently, Sgt. Briggs was sent Christmas greetings from Mr.Mueller along with a poem written by his great grandson who is currently serving in the United States Marine Corps. While it is true our two countries have a good many differences," John winked, "not the least of which is Father Christmas or Santa Claus. But in the end we all serve as warriors in the defense of our freedom. It is the wish of Sgt. Briggs that this Christmas message from the family of his dear friend, now a proud American, be read tonight as a tribute to our service. It is my honor to bring it to you."

 

'Twas the night before Christmas, he lived all alone in a one bedroom house made of plaster and stone.  
I had come down the chimney with presents to give, and to see just who in this house did live.  
I looked all about, a strange sight I did see, no tinsel, no presents, not even a tree.

 

No stocking by mantle, just boots filled with sand, and on the wall pictures of far distant lands.  
With medals and badges, awards of all kinds, a sobering thought came to my mind.  
For this house was different, so dark and so dreary, the home of a soldier, now I could see clearly.

 

The soldier lay sleeping, silent, alone, curled up on the floor in this one bedroom home.  
The face was so gentle, the room in such disorder, not how I pictured a United States soldier.  
Was this the hero of which I'd just read? Curled up on a poncho, the floor for a bed?

 

I realized the families that I saw this night, owed their lives to these soldiers who were willing to fight.  
Soon round the world, the children would play, and grownups would celebrate a bright Christmas day.  
They all enjoyed freedom each month of the year, because of the soldiers like the one lying here.

 

I couldn't help wonder how many lay alone, on a cold Christmas eve in a land far from home.  
The very thought brought a tear to my eye, I dropped to my knees and started to cry.  
The soldier awakened and I heard a rough voice, "Santa don't cry, this life is my choice;

 

I fight for freedom, I don't ask for more, my life is my God, my country, my corps."  
The soldier rolled over and soon drifted to sleep, I couldn't control it, I continued to weep.  
I kept watch for hours, so silent and still, and we both shivered from the cold evening's chill.

 

I didn't want to leave on that cold dark night, this guardian of honor so willing to fight.  
Then the soldier rolled over, with a voice soft and pure, whispered, "Carry on Santa, it's Christmas day, all is secure."  
One look at my watch, and I knew he was right. "Merry Christmas my friend, and to all a good night."

 

For a moment the room was shrouded in silence, then it erupted with thunderous applause. Dr.Fitzgerald leaned over to Sherlock and said, "A fine man, your Captain Watson, Mr. Holmes; a fine good man."

 

Before he could reply, someone shouted Happy Christmas, echoed, it seemed, by every man in the room. Then to Sherlock's utter distress, all present began singing Auld Lang Syne. It was too much he couldn't think, couldn't breathe. He somehow managed to wheeze a weak good night to his companions, and dashed for the door leading outside.

 

After long minutes of praise and handshakes all around, John finally broke away to reclaim his boyfriend, only to find him gone.

 

Dr. Fitzgerald shook his hand, "Enjoyed Mr. Holmes' company so much, Captain Watson, lovely young man, kind and attentive."

 

John found his mouth open in surprise. "Speaking of Sherlock, do you know where he's gone off to?"

 

"Out the back door, Captain. I expect for a smoke. He was fairly gasping when he left." John tried not to look disappointed. Sherlock had been doing well quitting the cigarettes; and now on a night that meant so much, the tosser had to spoil things by running out before the evening was over.

 

Making his goodbyes, John headed for the door. Stepping outside, he was struck by just how cold it had gotten and that it had begun lightly snowing. Looking around for Sherlock, expecting a fog of smoke, he was startled to instead see the detective sitting on the ground, curled up along side the bins. 

 

John's first thought was that his lover had had too much to drink; then he noticed his whole body was shaking. Bending down he touched Sherlock's shoulder gently. "Lock what is it, are you ill?"

 

The detective looked up and John was horrified to see tears streaming down his cheeks, nose running, face flushed. "Oh John it's too much. I can't function, I can't - take me home John. Please please take me home!"

 

The doctor hauled him bodily to his feet, "'Course luv, come on we've got to get you warm. We'll get our coats, a taxi, and then home, yeah?" Sherlock wiped his face and followed John inside.

 

The taxi ride back to Baker Street was quiet. Sherlock seemed unwilling to talk and John didn't make him. Once upstairs, the doctor stripped them of their coats, then brewed very hot, very strong tea. Settling on the couch, he pulled Sherlock down beside him and threw a coverlet over his legs.

 

" Lock, I'm not going to press you, but think you can tell me what's going on ?" He sat quietly, gently rubbing Sherlock's hands between his own to warm them.

 

It was nearly ten minutes until Sherlock drew a shaky breath and began to talk. "John, don't be cross if I tell you I'm not sure. This is not some attempt to be evasive, I am confused. All I can say is the entire evening I was not really myself. Of course, being me, I found all the speeches and pointless social niceties boring. But, I truly enjoyed the company of Dr. Fitzgerald ; he was interesting and noble, John, that's the word noble. When I helped him stand, I felt - this is frustrating ! I don't know what I felt, I just did."

 

He drank some tea and continued. "Then, I can't tell you how proud I was of you John. First your recitation of The Regimental Creed; you were so stalwart and carried yourself with such dignity. I stood there thinking, there stands the man I call idiot, and slow, and - well, tonight I SAW Captain Watson. Not the one I make light of or sexual jokes about. The real Captain Watson."

 

"Sherlock you don't have to say -"

 

"John let me continue before whatever this Christmas magic is dissipates and I revert to my imperious self. Then you read the poem about the lonely soldier. I could see you in that miserable bedsit you lived in before you came here; you were alone because you chose the life of a soldier. Rationally, I haven't begun to believe in 'Santa Claus', but I found myself wishing he WAS real to watch over you, as you watch over us - over me."

 

Sherlock leaned into John and sighed. "It occurred to me John that I don't respect you as I should. Respect not only the soldier and the uniform, but John Watson the man. I am a foolish man"

 

"Sherlock, that's not true. I have never felt disrespected by you."

 

The detective shook his head. "You are many things John, a good liar is not one of them. It IS true, and I saw it all so clearly tonight. You know me John, I am not a sentimentalist. But when all of your Fusiliers, most broken by age or war, began singing that insipid Auld Lang Syne, I simply couldn't control my emotions. I fear I must have embarrassed myself in front of your fellow soldiers."

 

John smiled, "Quite the contrary, they found you delightful."

 

Sherlock sniffed, "There's no need to be insulting John."

 

"I'm not, Dr. Fitzgerald said you were kind and attentive. Don't make that face, he did. They thought you just went out for a smoke. So your unexplainable attack of humanity is safe from exposure. But I need you to hear me Sherlock, are you listening?"

 

"Yes John, and retaining - if that helps."

 

"It does luv. I told you once that when I was shot, I prayed please God let me live. Well, I did, and for a while I wasn't sure if that was for the best. Hush! I'm talking now. Then I met you; and as far as not believing in 'Santa Claus', don't you reckon that Mike is about as close to being an elf as we're going to find ?"

 

"Are we losing touch with reality here John?"

 

"No, I think you've been infected with Christmas spirit, and I must tell you, as your doctor, there's no cure."

 

"Then I shall have to adjust I suppose. I blame you for exposing me to the outside world."

 

"Ta for that. Sorry I invited you to a gathering where no one was murdered or kidnapped." His eyes sparkled.

 

"Most inconsiderate, doctor." Sherlock paused to carefully choose his words. "All I know is, whatever the reason- Christmas, fever, insanity, I finally understand what being a soldier really means to you. It's not just part of you, it's who you are. I regret having not seen it before now. I will never lose sight of how important it is to you again, as now it is equally important to me. That soldier who stood before me tonight, is who made the man that I have been blessed to allow to love. Captain Watson. MY Captain."

 

John pulled him into a passionate kiss. "Too right your Captain, and only yours. And don't you bloody well forget it Private Holmes."

 

Sherlock looked aghast, "John, I promised no more making light of your military service."

 

"See here young man, am I going to have to charge you with insubordination?"

 

"But John -"

 

"That's Captain Watson to you, brat." Grabbing Sherlock by the lapels of his tux, he pulled him to his feet. Pressing their bodies together John rutted against his lover, quickly bringing both of their anatomies to rigid attention.

 

Scandalized, Sherlock pushed away. "John, you'll soil your uniform."

 

"Don't you mean WE'LL soil my uniform, Private? Besides the dry cleaner said when I brought it back in, he'd clean it for free to thank me for my service. So, what say you service me, yeah?"

 

"But he'll see, he'll know -"

 

"Don't worry, we'll just spill lots of stuff on it. March Private!"

 

Army maneuvers couldn't hold a candle to the maneuvers engaged in by Captain Watson and Private Holmes in the barracks of Baker Street. John might be Army Retired, but he still gave the orders in the bedroom. As for Sherlock, well, the dry cleaner would have his work cut out for him.

 

Somewhere between taps and reveille, the last command was issued and the Fusilier and his recruit retired for the night. The carnage of the skirmish was all that remained.

 

Wearing "battle ribbons" of semen and "uniform patches" of love bites on naked skin, John and Sherlock were tangled together "at ease" on the bed which served as the "parade ground" for their lovemaking. The battle fought and won.

 

John used his last ounce of strength to plunder Sherlock's mouth one final time. "So Private, have you written your letter to 'Santa Claus ?"

 

"Possibly, asking for honey flavored lube, and for Mycroft to sod off."

 

"Nothing else? Then you must have been satisfied with the performance record of Captain Watson ?"

 

Sherlock weakly raised his right hand in a last pitiful attempt to salute and rumbled in an octave brought up from his curling toes, "Oh Captain, my Captain - it's Christmas !"

Company - Dismissed !

**Author's Note:**

> For crazycatt71 who led me to adapt a song about Hippos for Christmas into Johnlock, teaching me that, if you're brave enough, ANY topic is possible.
> 
> * The Regimental Creed is taken directly from the British Army Website.
> 
>  
> 
> * The featured poem is an untitled work by Lance Corporal  
> James M. Schmidt, United States Marine Corps.
> 
> ** The characters of Karl Mueller,and his great grandson;  
> Dr.Fitzgerald , and Edward Briggs are fictional.


End file.
